Mistress of Delaford
by Marianne Brandon
Summary: Does "happily ever after" always come right away? Marianne finds herself discontented with being Mrs. Brandon, a life contrary to everything she had believed. DISCONTINUED: See author's profile for details.
1. A Sister's Love

_**A/N: All right, well, I've wanted to write a sequel to "Sense & Sensibility" for a very long time, and I finally decided to start it. I have a pretty good idea of where I'm taking it, and I certainly hope it works! I'm taking background from both the movie and the book (probably more the movie, because, alas, I prefer that over the book).**_

_**Also…if you read this, please review!**_

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, none of these characters are mine. Rather, they belong to Jane Austen, history's Ultimate Authoress.

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For the third time in the past hour, Marianne put down her book, hardly conscious of her mind drifting away from the words on the page, far beyond the window and over the vast lawns of Delaford. This had been happening more frequently in the past few weeks, since she and her husband returned from their honeymoon and settled into their home.

There had been her wedding to concentrate on, followed by weeks of traveling through the country. Afterward, of course, she had to settle into her new role as mistress of Delaford. For this particular matter, she employed what she considered a simple solution—she left everything alone. The estate was run exactly as it had always been, without her changing a thing, and she gave the servants no new orders. She spent a great deal of her time as she was now, with a book in her hands, reclining in the library's window seat.

Truth be told, she hardly knew what else to do. Her husband, though exceptionally attentive during their travels, had absorbed himself in his business affairs—whatever they might be—once they had returned to Devonshire. She rarely saw him, except at mealtimes. Her treatment of him had transformed, over time, into the dignified, quiet affection suitable for a wife of her status. Christopher Brandon would deny her nothing, she knew, and thus far, he had not. But oddly enough, she had grown shy around him.

Goodness, she had become just like her sister! Marianne had always criticized Elinor for being so calm and rational when it came to love, and scoffed at the politeness between her sister and brother-in-law. _She _would never have stood for it. Love was passionate and all-consuming, a fire within one's soul that came only once in a lifetime, only once to those individuals capable of retaining such a conflagration. Yet she had learned, the hard way, that it was not always so. In that, she became a kind of woman she had always despised. It really was not as bad as she thought it would be, just…different. Very different.

Scarcely five minutes after she had begun reading again, a floorboard squeaked and she heard the hesitantly approaching steps of her husband's boots. Though she hated to be interrupted whenever she was reading, Marianne smiled dryly. He was always very careful about disturbing her, but she often sensed him coming anyway. He was not a man who called attention to himself by his clumsiness; there was not an uncouth particle in his entire body. Marianne did not know what it was, but even when he was completely silent…she knew he was there.

"Marianne?" He finally announced his presence in the library doorway.

"Good afternoon, Colonel," she said, using his title as a given name. It was how she had addressed him before their marriage, and even afterward, she had not seen fit to alter it.

"I believe we must be going now, to call on Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars."

With a little gasp, Marianne realized she had completely forgotten what day it was. They had previously arranged to visit Edward and Elinor.

"Of course!" As she sprang to her feet, she dropped her book back onto the window seat. With another glance at it, she picked it back up and sheepishly returned it to its place on the vast shelves. What had she expected—that he would reprimand her like a child, and force her to pick up after herself? Certainly it was absurd to imagine, but it passed through her mind just the same.

If only he was more like herself! _Then _she might better read his thoughts and know his emotions…if he had any. Scolding herself even as she thought it, she bit her lip and nervously glanced at him sideways. She could not help allowing these thoughts to occupy her mind as they went down the staircase together and set off across the lawn. Why was she feeling so awkward with him? Their wedding had long since passed, and they seemed to be well established. Why did she now fully realize what had happened to her, and how uncertain she was about it?

You might well have thought of all this before you married him! 

Oh, that would not have changed things. She knew firsthand that he was kind and generous, and he loved her deeply. Sir John Middleton was quick to exaggerate many things, but in his praise of Colonel Brandon, he had not done so. Marianne knew Elinor and her mother were terribly pleased with her husband, and Margaret was fond of him. Marianne had nothing against him—anymore. She was certainly not indifferent. Her affection for him was real enough—how could it be otherwise? He had those enduring virtues that came most often through age and grief.

_But he's so different_…_from anyone I would have wanted before_…

Willoughby entered her mind, and she pushed thoughts of him away with a tightening of her throat. Did he ever think of her anymore? No matter how hard she tried, she could not forget him. She could not forget how he had loved her once, even when he was forced to reject her. Perhaps she ought to loathe him for all the pain she had suffered, but she found herself unable to do so. Did he suffer now, with his own wife, knowing he would forever be separated from the woman he had loved with such abandon? Or had he learned to relocate his feelings?

_I cannot think of him anymore_. _It is wrong, and unfair to my husband, who deserves better_. _At least that I can admit even to myself_.

"Your mind is very much elsewhere today."

Brandon's voice cut into her secret thoughts and startled her. She almost jerked her arm away from his, causing him to stop walking. She grinned, a little too brightly, to conceal her fear that he was somehow reading her mind.

"Forgive me, Colonel. It was, indeed." Once the words had flown from her mouth, she silently cursed them. Hoping he would say nothing, she kept walking.

He followed suit. "May I inquire where that 'elsewhere' might be?"

She looked up and caught his slight smile. The warmth in his eyes broke a dam somewhere inside her, and she was flooded with guilt. What would Elinor say if she knew what her dear sister was thinking about as she strolled along on her husband's arm?

_Oh, Elinor, I promised you I would be better! And what have I done about it? I stand here with the Colonel, thinking about Willoughby and wishing_…

Wishing what?

That Brandon was more like Willoughby—the man who had failed her!

_I am such a fool_…_Willoughby was no Romeo_…

She grimaced to herself, remembering that even Romeo had been passionately in love with Rosalind before Juliet came along. He had not been truly faithful to her, and with Juliet, well…he had never quite had the time to be untrue, had he? He had fallen deeply in love, and very quickly. Their spark had not faded; their fire had not gone out before they died. Marianne glanced at her husband. _His _love was no impetuous flame of youth. She knew in her heart and soul that it was something lasting.

Then why should she worry?

"I was thinking about the book I had been reading," she lied. "_The Castle of Otranto_. It is dark and frightening, and, to be honest, I had not imagined such a book to ever be in your possession."

"It was probably added by another family member," Brandon said with a small smile. "I have no recollection of purchasing anything of that title myself."

"That must be so," she murmured.

"A grim topic for a day such as this," he said, indicating the sunshine and expansive greenery. Marianne only then noticed the loveliness of the birds' songs, and her dry, troubled spirit drank it in gratefully. She found herself breaking into a sincere smile this time, though she continued to nervously pick at the lace on her shawl with her free hand.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, but when they came over the last rise and saw the little house, with the church in the distance, Marianne detached herself from the Colonel and began to run in her eagerness to see her sister. Elinor came out of the door as Marianne's laughter rang out, and even from a distance, it was clear that she was a little embarrassed by her younger sister's display. If Elinor had been close enough to see Brandon's face, she would have known they were _both_ thinking the same thing—that Marianne's hurriedness would not cause her to take a tumble down the slope.

"Good afternoon, Colonel!" Elinor managed to call out, just before Marianne's arms encircled her neck, rendering her temporarily incapable of speech.

"How _are_ you Elinor?" Marianne asked, gasping for breath.

She laughed. "Marianne, one would think we had not seen each other in months, and it has not been two days!"

"What is time and distance when dear sisters are parted?" Marianne asked, spreading her hands. Already her cheeks were rosier than when they had left, less from the exercise than the company. "I have still missed you!"

Elinor could only sigh and shake her head until Brandon approached.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Ferrars."

"Do come in and sit down," Elinor said. "Edward is off writing next Sunday's sermon, but he knows you were coming and he should be back shortly."

As they came into the little parlor, Marianne was astonished to realize that, for once, she envied her sister. Elinor and Edward were perfectly matched, and took such pleasure from each other's company. Not that Marianne disliked being with her own husband, but she was never quite comfortable in her own skin, when the two of them were alone. The cause was a complete mystery to her, and she knew better than to lay all the blame upon him.

But though she knew much of his past, and trusted his character…she still felt herself married to a complete stranger.

"Have you been to visit our mother lately?" Elinor asked, once tea was distributed and remarks on the outstanding weather had been spoken.

"She and Margaret dined with us the other night," Marianne said, lifting her chin, her tone slightly accusing. "We sent the carriage for them and _could _have had it come for you, as well, had you seen fit to attend."

Elinor smirked. "Marianne, you know perfectly well that we had been invited to dine in Exeter with—"

"Yes," Marianne interrupted with an exaggerated sigh of long-suffering. "I suppose it is the duty of a minister and his wife to sometimes spurn family for the sake of the rest of the flock."

"My apologies, Marianne," Edward said, chuckling as he entered the room and took a seat beside Elinor. "You must forgive the duties of my occupation."

Marianne dropped her teasing as soon as she saw her brother-in-law, and her smile became affectionate again. "Oh, Edward, you know you shall _always_ have my forgiveness. Yet you will never _truly_ commit an act that would require it!"

"I am most deeply relieved," he said, before turning to the other man in the room. "How do you do, Colonel."

After a time of general conversation, Marianne and Elinor excused themselves to take a turn in the Ferrars' little garden. In a little while, the men followed suit, taking a different route in order to talk of more business-related matters. As they went along their way, Marianne could feel Elinor's mood change a little, as though a shadow was passing over her. She was not entirely surprised at the conversation that ensued.

"Marianne," Elinor said, quietly, hesitantly, "you know I am always delighted to see you, and Edward is, as well. It is a pleasure for you to call on us, or for us to visit you at Delaford."

"Thank you," Marianne said, restraining herself, knowing Elinor had not said all she wished.

"Yet, I cannot help but wonder if you seek my company…in order to avoid that of…others."

Marianne looked down at the ground. "You mean my husband." She felt her sister's hand tighten on her own.

"Dearest, if there is something badly amiss, won't you please tell me?" Elinor stopped walking and moved to stand in front of her. "Colonel Brandon is a fine man, widely respected, and I can see he loves you very much. But I have only my own viewpoint to speak from, and I do hope we have not been mistaken."

There was no sign of blame in Elinor's voice, but Marianne felt it anyway.

"There was no mistake—it is as you say," she said, not looking up. She heard a sigh of relief.

"Oh, I am glad," Elinor said. After a few tense moments, she said, in a lower voice, "Marianne…look at me."

She did.

"Even so, all is not well?"

With a sigh of her own, Marianne looked away from Elinor and focused on a tree somewhere behind her.

"Colonel Brandon is just as everyone says. He is an agreeable, honorable man, of good taste, and he is very kind. I know he loves me, Elinor." She forced herself to look into her sister's matching blue eyes. "But I do not love him, and that pains me more than anything."

"What is his great failing?" Elinor asked, not without a hint of sarcasm, as she was long familiar with her sister's choosy nature.

Marianne felt more color collecting in her cheeks. "It is no failing on his part. It is mine. I somehow cannot bring myself to love him, as I know he deserves. He must be deeply disappointed with me. Try as I might, I cannot remedy it. His gaze does not make me blush, and I do not tremble when he comes near. I have no great burning within me to be forever by his side, and I know he is worthy of such feelings."

"Oh, Marianne," Elinor groaned. "That is but _one _kind of love."

"But it is _my _kind!"

Elinor closed her eyes, and Marianne imagined she was sending up a quick prayer for patience.

"It is not that I dislike him," Marianne said lamely. "Indeed, I like him very much, and I have a great deal of respect for him."

Elinor smiled, and Marianne realized what was so amusing. "You respect him, Marianne? You _like_ him? As I recall, you once despised the use of such dull language, and even reprimanded me for the use of those words."

Marianne swallowed, blinking rapidly. "I know. Look what I have been reduced to."

"Oh, dearest," Elinor said, reaching out to touch her sister's warm cheek. "Whyever did you marry him?"

Marianne frowned. "I am not wholly without logic, Elinor. I _know_ he loves me, and I am grateful for all he has done for us. We may not be here, at this moment, if it were not for Colonel Brandon. I know what Sir John said was true, and there _is _no better man to find. I have no disregard for him, and I have no complaint that is solely due to his failing. Yet he is so far from my girlhood dreams, I cannot help but regret…" Her lips trembled, and the tears welling in her eyes finally escaped.

"Elinor," she gasped, "what am I to do?"

Distressed by this new information, her sister quickly enclosed Marianne in her arms. Poor, pitiable Marianne, and her fairytale inclinations! Elinor had hoped, after the disaster with John Willoughby, that Marianne would loosen her fierce hold on the romantic sensibilities she had always possessed. To her credit, she had married wisely, but because she did not feel the sting of Cupid's arrow, she did not believe herself capable of loving Brandon. There was hope for Marianne in her awareness of the situation, but Elinor was at a loss for advice. Would time alone be sufficient to generate stronger affection within Marianne's heart? Or, because she would probably never feel the burning madness of infatuation, was she only meant for disappointment?

"You must be patient, Marianne," she finally said. "I know it is against your very nature, but you must be patient. The ardent, overwhelming love you want to feel may never come. Even if it did, it would not last. It never has, in all of history. The more reign you give to your passions, the further they fly, and the faster they are gone."

She placed her hands on Marianne's shoulders and gently pushed her away, just enough to look her in the face. "Even in your favorite love stories, dear Marianne, there is some end to such passion—too often unhappy. But if you are kind, gracious, and agreeable, I daresay you will find yourself quite in love with your husband."

Through her tears and sniffles, Marianne wryly mumbled, "You always offer the most difficult solutions."

Elinor's grip strengthened. "I did not tell you to display feelings you do not have! Do you not _want_ to love him?"

After a lengthy pause, Marianne said, "More than anything, I wish I could."

_I'm sure she already does,_ Elinor thought, _but she would not believe me if I told her so_. She nodded to her sister. "It is a promising beginning, then."


	2. Tensions

**A/N: Oh, thank you so much! I honestly never expected such wonderful reviews for this story. I was wondering if I had gotten in over my head by trying to write fan-fiction based on such a brilliant writer as Jane Austen. I am so relieved and glad you enjoy it. I'm having such fun writing it, though I'm under an enormous amount of pressure to do the best job possible! Believe me, I shall try. Do enjoy this next installment.**

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She laughed more easily, and her eyes had a stronger brilliance when she was with her family. Brandon knew she wore no mask. Marianne was very nearly incapable of exhibiting emotions she did not feel, just as she was unable to conceal those she did. She was happier with her family—it was the plain and simple truth. Because of this, Brandon made sure she saw them as often as possible; it seemed the only way he could ever see her so content.

Brandon was well aware that his wife did not despise him, and he took some comfort in that. There may have been a time when she resented him, but it had long since passed. He at least had that security. There were still instances when he wondered if he was mistaken, that she might still dislike him, but then he would be proven wrong.

He would make her laugh, pleasing her with a demonstration of spontaneity one might not believe he possessed. He was enthusiastically obliged if he asked her to sing and play the pianoforte. Just when he wondered if she did it out of a sense of responsibility, she would ask him to sit beside her and practice a duet. One night, she woke with a nightmare—one of many since her illness—and later fell asleep again, enveloped in his arms, her forehead pressed against his chest. Every single moment of that sort made up for the hundreds in which he was wracked with doubt.

Something was amiss, however, and there was no sense in ignoring it. Admittedly, Brandon knew little of young women, and his past experiences had not been exactly uplifting. Perhaps she needed more time to adjust to this new lifestyle than he had anticipated. The past two years of her young life had been strenuous, and rather tragic. Keeping that in mind, he told himself he would give her all the time and space she might possibly need—the rest of his life, and all of God's green earth, if it came to that. All the same, he had been a lonely man, and in marriage, his situation had not been altered very much.

Marianne retreated to the library as soon as they returned from the Ferrars' house. They had not been home twenty minutes when he heard the front door open, and the boisterous voices of Sir John and Mrs. Jennings filled the large foyer. Apparently the old woman had become bored with London and again returned to Devonshire.

Brandon stifled a groan, only just then remembering that the lovable but vexing family had been invited to dine that evening. He shut his eyes for the briefest moment before he went out to greet them. Normally he was glad for the lively company of his old friend, but tonight, he would rather be alone with his own thoughts.

"Brandon, my boy!" Sir John exclaimed as soon as he caught sight of his friend. "You look better than ever, I must say. Yes, marriage certainly agrees with you—doesn't it, Mama?" He quickly turned to Mrs. Jennings for concurrence with his loud opinion.

"Oh, of course, Colonel!" she said. "Why, I always said that marriage does wonders for a man, and in your case, it was about time, too." She chuckled, her large body shaking with mirth. "But where _is _your pretty young wife? Have you hidden her away to keep all for yourself?" The ridiculousness of her words only made her laugh harder, and John merrily joined in. Lady Middleton, John's wife, awkwardly stood back, closer to the door.

Brandon suffered their humor in silence, with only a distracted smile. No one seemed to notice the vacant look in Brandon's eyes, but when Marianne appeared at the top of the stairs, they were again alight with all the love and adoration he felt for her. Even absorbed in their own hilarity, it did not escape the two guests.

"Sir John," Marianne exclaimed, hurrying down the staircase, "Lady Middleton, Mrs. Jennings! I almost forgot you were to come this evening." The delight in visiting Elinor had made Marianne much more convivial toward their visitors, and her bright smile was genuine.

"Aha, look at her, John," Mrs. Jennings said, grinning slyly. "As lively and bright as you would expect a bride to be! Though I believe it does not compare to the look on the Colonel's face when he saw her coming."

"Lovely, lovely," Sir John said, ignoring the look of horror that had rapidly replaced the smile on Marianne's face.

She could not remain silent. "We have just come back from visiting Elinor and Edward. I would that they came as well, but Edward could not be spared from his work tonight." She looked back and forth between the older couple. "Have your children remained behind?"

Brandon hid his surprise at her question, knowing that she had previously held no interest in the Middleton youngsters.

"Oh, my dear daughter does not know what to do with herself without the children nearby!" Mrs. Jennings spoke up, smiling unceasingly. "I convinced her to let them stay at home one night. Annamaria has a cough, and is _very_ fussy, and they would have been far too unruly today to let us have proper conversation _here_." Indeed, Lady Middleton looked very self-conscious without a child attached to her skirts.

Marianne's smile was but half a grimace as she and Brandon led the trio into the parlor. She had done well in the first few minutes of their guests' arrival, but their presence quickly began to grate on her. The inane conversation continued until she thought she would cry out just to cause a change of subject. Normally she was better able to bear Mrs. Jennings' loud, incessant chatter, Lady Middleton's lackluster character, or Sir John's simple-minded topics of conversation. With everything else plaguing her mind that night, it was much more difficult to bear.

Fortunately, she held her composure—and her tongue—all the way through supper. Staring into her soup, only half-listening to Sir John talking about the latest acquisition to his assortment of firearms, Marianne thought how proud Elinor would be of her.

After the meal, Brandon approached her and whispered a gentle request to play the pianoforte for everyone. Marianne looked up at him with intensely thankful eyes. For a little while, she could absorb herself in one of her favorite pastimes and do without the idle talk. She could be silent while everyone else spoke, and, for at least a short while, transport herself to another place and time. Somehow she resisted the impulse to throw her arms around his neck in gratitude.

How sad, indeed, that the one action she had refused herself was the very thing that would have most pleased Brandon at that moment!

To her chagrin, everyone moved from the parlor into the music room to watch her play, postponing their conversations. She would have much preferred them to sit the next room, letting her music drift in through the doorway, supplementing their conversation. Giving a more formal after-dinner performance was not exactly what she had in mind. She glanced up as Brandon awkwardly took a seat and suspected it was not what he had intended, either.

She sat at the Broadwood Grand for a few moments, her fingers resting on the keys while she thought of what to play. At last, she cleared her throat and began a dark, wretched tune about a sailor who died at sea and left his true love heartbroken. She did not sing the words, but their sorrow was expressed vividly enough. Her throat tightened, and a few teardrops trembled at the corners of her eyes. It was a song she had rarely practiced since her father's death, but tonight it had called to her from the back of her memory.

When she ended on a gloomy, lingering note, even Mrs. Jennings had nothing to say. Their applause was hesitant, only once pierced by an inapt "Well done!" from Sir John.

"I have never heard that tune before," Mrs. Jennings at last managed to say. "Have _you_, my dear?" she asked Lady Middleton, who declared she had not.

Marianne remained seated at the pianoforte, her eyelids clenched to prevent the tears from escaping. Aware of her romantic proclivities, the guests paid little attention to this emotional display. Mrs. Jennings and Sir John had already begun a new course of conversation, as though Marianne's performance itself had been a sort of intermission. In a moment, she felt a familiar sensation within herself, and looked up. Brandon was standing over her; the look on his face was nothing less than fearful.

"Marianne, are you well?"

She gulped down a breath of air and cleared her throat again. "Yes."

"Forgive me, I would not have asked you to play if—"

"No, no, it is not that," she said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. "It was a regrettable choice of song. It is I who must apologize."

"There is no need," Brandon said. "You played it very well."

Marianne could not hide her exasperation this time. "It was not a question of…" At last taking control of herself, she shook her head. "No matter, I suppose."

"My dear Mrs. Brandon, this is a lively evening, with lively company!" Mrs. Jennings said at last. "There is no need for such somber tunes as that, even if it was exquisitely performed. You must give us another performance."

"Let us hear something jolly!" Sir John added. "You two are recently married. This is no time for a funeral dirge."

Her artist's ego wounded, Marianne glared up at her husband. He smiled at her, amiably and apologetically, yet with an unspoken appeal to do as their guests had asked. With a martyr's sigh, she settled her fingers once more upon the instrument and began a bright, lively tune that would have set the youngsters to dancing, had they come along. When the song was finished, even the reticent Lady Middleton managed to curve her lips with pleasure.

Marianne moved away from the piano, feeling as though her tastes had not been appreciated. Unfortunately, this also meant that she had to participate in the conversation for the rest of the evening. It was just as at dinner, with her sitting quietly while pretending to listen to Sir John and Lady Middleton talk about their children, or Mrs. Jennings describe her latest journey from London—again.

Someone nudged her arm. It was Brandon, and Marianne suddenly realized she had been sitting with her eyes closed drowsily, she could not even guess for how long.

To her great relief, Sir John finally announced that they must be on their way. Neither he nor Mrs. Jennings noticed the sign of physical relief in their hosts, and if Lady Middleton had seen, she made no remark. Of course, it was at least another quarter of an hour before they had actually climbed into the carriage and set off for their own estate. Marianne barely managed to linger in the doorway, waving as long as was polite, before she launched herself up the staircase and back into the library. Brandon had no chance to speak a word to her before he heard the door close.

He leaned against the heavy front door, feeling deflated. Was he thus dismissed for the evening, as well? All his years in the army, of marching and discipline, of hard training, of learning not to shrink from the blast of gunpowder…none of it had prepared him for married life, for the maze in which he now wandered. If she did not loathe him, why should she avoid his company? His eyes swept up to the top of the staircase. Conversely, if he was never so pleased with life as when in her presence, why should he remain down here, while she sat alone in a shadowy room?

With a sigh, Brandon stepped forward and grasped the banister. If she wanted solitude, she would have to tell him so.

She was lying on her stomach, close to the fire, when he came into the room. Her lips were slightly curled in reaction to the reading, though from disgust or fear, he could not tell. The crackling flames and her absorption in the novel must have disguised the sound of his entrance, for she did not look up. Her eyes widened, alluringly reflecting the firelight, and she exhaled sharply as she turned the page. It must have been very intriguing.

Feeling like an impostor upon this private scene, Brandon sat in a chair near the door and simply watched her. A few minutes later, Marianne closed the book and sat up, looking depressingly perplexed, her brow furrowed. Not until she had placed the novel back on its shelf and turned to leave did she see him. With a shriek, she stepped back, clapping her hand over her heart.

"How long have you been there?" she asked, gasping.

Brandon stood, mortified at having frightened her so. "Not long. You were so engrossed that I hated the idea of interrupting you, so I waited. Forgive me for startling you."

"Yes, I…I finished the book, so…I believe I will retire for the night. It has been quite an eventful day, has it not?"

He only nodded, and Marianne could tell he longed to say something else. Feeling exposed and self-conscious beneath that unswerving gaze, she lowered her eyes and turned away. Finally, she spoke again.

"Do you wish to say anything more, or am I free to go?"

"Marianne, you are mistress of this estate. You are every moment free to come and go as you please."

One corner of her mouth tipped up ruefully. "I am not yet accustomed to it."

Brandon nodded. "I can understand." He took a deep breath. "Is that what ails you?"

Her eyebrows lifted. "Have I said that something ails me?"

"No, I merely…I thought today, at your sister's…Well, you seem unwell this evening. I thought perhaps something had affected you." When she said nothing, he added, "The piece you played had quite an impact on your temper, it appeared. I wondered if there was not something else involved."

"No, there is nothing. I…I…" She chewed at the tip of one delicate fingernail before admitting, "I cannot yet see myself as mistress of Delaford. Sometimes I think these past two years have all been a haze, a waking dream, and I cannot tell how I came to be standing here now."

"Is there anything I may do for you?" Brandon asked.

Something about his gentle query touched a nerve. She had expected him to be impatient, exasperated, frustrated at her inability to adjust to being his wife. She kept looking for some kind of outburst, some sign of anger or fear, but it never came. Christopher Brandon never expressed any irrational emotion whatsoever. Instead, there was always that patient, inscrutable stare, and that calm, almost desolate expression on his face. He had waited so long for her, and he constantly looked as though he waited still.

"No," Marianne cried, "no, nothing! Stop _doing _anything for me. I am so weary of being beholden to you!" Pressing her palm to her forehead, she took a step back. When she glanced up at Brandon again, he looked stricken.

He had to swallow several times and lick his lips before he was able to speak again. "I had often wondered if you were unhappy here with me."

Marianne shook her head. "I am as happy as I could ever hope to be. Perhaps more than I deserve."

He did not ask what she meant, but only said, "I always knew I could never be the dashing champion you used to dream about. But I had hoped that I could come to be your friend, defender, and lover."

Marianne irrelevantly wondered how a man his age could still blush. Finally realizing what grief she had heaped upon him, she laid a hand on his arm. "You have not failed me, Colonel. I wonder if it is rather the other way around. I do not think I have ever fully understood why you ever wanted _me_, of all people, to be your wife."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a breeze of relief seemed to pass across his face. With a despairing little grin, he cupped her chin with one hand and said, "Your warmth and wit and vivacity, Marianne, your capacity to live and love, your youthful spirit captivated me. Beauty like yours I have never found, in all my life before. You possess such traits that I hold dear, but could never emulate."

Marianne merely stood still, staring at him, utterly speechless. Brandon's sudden enthusiasm was wholly unexpected, and a little frightening. She had no idea how to react. All she knew was that she had a profound fondness for him—and an even deeper pity, that she could not summon forth anything more for this man who adored her.

What was she supposed to do? She frantically tried to recall her earlier conversation with Elinor.

Brandon removed his hand from her face and inclined his head slightly. "My apologies, Marianne…I am afraid I lack the words to express myself properly. I do not possess your aptitude with poetry."

Marianne gulped down a breath. Perhaps now she ought to return the favor, and tell him what she valued in him. His whole being seemed to cry out for affirmation, demonstrating a vulnerability she had never before seen in him. All possible words fled from of her mind for the moment, and she was left with nothing to say for herself, or for him, but one simple thing.

"And you, Colonel, are indeed the very best of men."

Speaking the words made her feel worse; they were her sister's, and not her own. She herself could think of nothing better to say. And from the way the light left his eyes, Marianne realized Brandon knew it, as well.


	3. An Unexpected Visitor

**A/N: To all of those who STILL REVIEWED after all this time:**

**Uh…wow.**..

**Thank you. What else can I say? Humbly, sincerely, thank you. I considered just never updating again, no longer certain where this story was going, but I still get reviews from loyal readers who want to see it continued and concluded. What else can I do but keep going? Yes, it was YOU, readers, your loyal hearts and loyal reviews that inspired me to keep going! I only hope I don't disappoint, because you are obviously still interested. I am absolutely thrilled. I love you all. Please enjoy.  
**

* * *

"I have decided not to go shooting with Sir John this morning," Brandon said.

In her surprise at the sound of his voice, Marianne struck a few discordant notes on the pianoforte. She had been concentrating intently on a new piece and was flustered by his disturbance. They had not spoken to each other since the night before, when they had returned to their own separate bedchambers, absorbed in their own separate melancholy thoughts.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked.

"Sir John and I had arranged to go hunting this morning," Brandon said. "I've just sent him my regrets that I cannot join him."

Marianne cleared her throat and began to straighten the sheets of music with trembling fingers. Even merely being in the same room as her husband made her flushed and nervous, though not for the reasons she had hoped. She was embarrassed, afraid of making a mistake, knowing she was already in the wrong.

"Why would you…why should you do such a thing?" she asked him, hoping to sound relaxed, falling dismally short of her goal. "Did you not wish to go with Sir John?"

He came further into the room and sat down in the chair nearest her. Leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees, he said, "Not with you here, not after the way we had bid each other goodnight."

The warmth kept pouring into her face. Weeks of marriage, and his growing frankness still tended to astonish her. However, there was no way on earth she could honestly deny the little bit of delight she felt at his attention. If she was uncertain of her own feelings for this man, at least she was doubtless in his affection for her. In his mind, there was no one else on an equal plane with Marianne, the wife of Colonel Christopher Brandon, and the mistress of a grand estate. Who _would_ be on the same level with her? However, she imagined that if she should ever give birth—God forbid!—to a daughter, she might become rather jealous! Once again, she wondered why she just could not be happy with what she already had.

"Rest assured, Colonel, that I know of your regard, and as your wife, I have avowed myself to remain yours until death. I will not betray you. I have nothing but fondness for you. You are an incomparable gentleman."

She was quite pleased with herself and her turn of phrase until he smiled slightly, sadly, and murmured, "Nothing but fondness."

At that, the sweet smile Marianne had fashioned upon her own lips fell, leaving her alarmed and embarrassed once again. Avoiding his painfully tender gaze, she looked down at the black and white pianoforte keys.

"Shall I play you something?" she whispered.

"Please."

With a sigh she could not hold back, she placed her hands on the keys again and played out her soul through the keys. She thought of nothing else, closing her eyes for lengthy periods. Her every emotion of the last few days swirled in the air, none of which she could name, and she forgot where she was and who else sat in the room. At last, she sounded the final chord and looked up at her husband. For a while, they held each others' gaze, until Brandon broke the silence.

"I believe I may ride down to Barton Park after all."

When he had gone, Marianne pounded a few loud notes in frustration. What had happened to her? She wondered for a moment if this love really had taken the romance out of her soul. Or had it been something else? She always knew that second attachments could never really exist, and here she was proving it to herself. Where was the carefree passion for life she had always possessed, the boundless energy and spirit that seemed to burst from her constantly? It must have disappeared, to be replaced with this staid, ungainly _uncertainty_. Uncertainty about what, she could not tell. Brandon made it clear where she stood with him, and he tried to tell her where he wished to stand with her, but…always within this restraint, this _politeness!_

The longer she sat there at the pianoforte, the more her mind wandered. She began to wish for the past, for her time with Willoughby, those sunny afternoons at the cottage. There had been passion between them, and everything she had come to expect from an admirer. And he had loved her…no matter what happened before or since, she knew that much. Poor Elinor! She had told Marianne what she had learned, thinking it would help, but it only made things more difficult. If only she had been rich! To her, wealth would not have mattered, but had it not been for the money, they could have been together in true happiness, as lovers were meant to be, and there would be no shadows, no demons, no longing glances unfulfilled or tormenting questions.

Her wandering, maudlin thoughts came to an abrupt stop. What could she be thinking? What a fool she was! Willoughby had been flirting with her, never intending to fall in love. He had fathered an illegitimate child, who was even now God only knew where. Marianne had been only a diversion…at first. But he came to love her, and now was married to a cold, wealthy woman who plagued his heart every day of his life. Marianne could not hold back a little smile of satisfaction.

_If his present regrets are half as painful as mine, he will suffer enough_.

And he had. At least, so she heard. But was she any better than he? She was married to a man who adored her, for whom she could hardly summon anything but the barest courtesy and friendliness. Once aglow with life, Marianne constantly felt at the point of suffocation.

She had no idea how long it had been that she sat there when her thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door. She stood up to run to answer it herself, but when she reached the doorway of the parlor, a servant had already opened it. She stopped, embarrassed at having forgotten—_once again_—that she was not expected to answer the door. Curious at the identity of her unexpected visitor, she lingered awkwardly in the doorway, hoping it was her mother and Margaret.

The maid opened the great front door and stepped back, clearly astonished at who had been standing at the other side. She glanced at Marianne, but the mistress of the house could not see who had knocked. The door swung back a little further, and Marianne finally had a view of a young woman, roughly her own age, but obviously from a far different life.

"Miss," the maid said, "I think you have come to the wrong house." She glanced at Marianne, presumably as a silent cry for assistance, or out of simple uncertainty.

"Oh, no, I couldn't have!" The strange woman looked half-starved, with darkly shadowed eyes. A few stray locks of mousey-brown hair peeked out from under a dirty, tattered bonnet that had been very fine at one time. The same could be said for her dress and its mud-splattered petticoats. For a moment, she smiled, and it made all the difference in her face. Marianne gasped softly at the stunning, simple, and fleeting beauty that came upon the woman when she smiled.

"This _is _Delaford, Colonel Brandon's home, is it not?" the woman persisted.

"Indeed, it is," the maid said, "but—"

"Oh, I _must_ speak to the Colonel. Please."

Marianne took a deep breath and stepped forward, ignoring the expression of relief that came over the maid and caused her shoulders to slump, relaxed.

"I'm afraid Colonel Brandon is not here," she said. "Perhaps…I could help you?"

The girl's already enormous eyes grew even larger, and she looked Marianne up and down, an action that might have offended Marianne had she not been so confused and intrigued.

"Madam," the girl said, breathless, "are you his wife? I heard he was married, but…"

Marianne frowned. "I am. Perhaps if I knew who you were…?"

The young woman burst into nervous giggles. "Oh, madam, I am so sorry! I haven't the manners of a goose, I know—you must think I'm perfectly mad to come here, uninvited. You see, I'm Miss Eliza Williams, I was Colonel Brandon's ward."

Marianne felt her heart stop for a moment. _Dear God, what do I do?_ She grasped the edge of the door simply for want of even the slightest support. Her second thought was, _Curse you, Colonel! You _had _to go shooting after all!_ Had he sent for her and forgotten? Surely he would have told Marianne. But perhaps not. Perhaps the tension between them had discouraged such courtesy and forewarning, Marianne thought bitterly.

She looked into the girl's eyes, and all she could see was Willoughby. Was he the cause of her poor condition? Where was her child? _Oh, lord_…_Willoughby's child_…

She could not endure this. Beneath her skirts and petticoats, Marianne felt her knees wobbling. How much time passed before she was able to speak, she did not know. What emotions were betrayed on her face in that time, she could not guess, and did not want to. Doubtless Eliza, if she was at all perceptive, had noticed _something_.

At last the words eventually stumbled off Marianne's tongue and through her lips. They were all correct, but somehow they did not _sound _quite right. She could hardly think of what else to say other than the usual pleasantries afforded to every guest.

"I…Colonel Brandon is out shooting with Sir John…Sir John Middleton…I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss…Miss Williams. Perhaps you might come inside…and wait for him?"

"Oh, thank you, madam!" Eliza gushed as a dazed Marianne led her into the parlor. "I know I was not thinking when I set out to come here, but I did not know where else to go. I was afraid the Colonel would be away, and I simply could not write to him, because I knew he would refuse me."

They sat down. Much to Marianne's horror, the girl began to cry.

"I c-cannot imagine what you m-must think of me, madam! You are too kind, just t-to allow me in here, having never met me or anything…I am sure the Colonel has told you all ab-bout the terrible things I've done. He'll be so angry that I left the Bramwells' but I couldn't bear it any more. They weren't very k-kind to me before, and now…I know they'd use j-just about any excuse to throw me from the house, so I left b-before they had the chance."

Once they sat, Marianne only watched the young woman cry, not sure what else to do or say. Desperate, she rang for tea, thinking that Eliza might feel better with something in her stomach. The request only resulted in more weepy thanks and apologies on Eliza's part. Marianne only voiced her thoughts that perhaps they would _both _benefit from a hot beverage and something to eat. Wiping her eyes, Eliza nodded and murmured an agreement that was lost in all her sniffling. Marianne said no more, wondering if Eliza wanted to add anything. Wishing to look at anything but the woman sitting across from her, Marianne's eyes shifted to one of the room's tall windows. The breeze had picked up, and there were a few nasty-looking clouds in the distance.

"They think it was my fault," Eliza murmured, twisting in her hands the handkerchief that Marianne had offered her.

_Her fault? _Marianne wondered. _There are at least two people who share the blame, are there not? _she wanted to say aloud, though propriety and pity restrained her. What _was _that girl talking about? Perhaps she was not to blame entirely, but surely she had free will to make her own decisions. Marianne could feel a little anger bubbling up inside her. After all this trying to forget about Willoughby, here was someone to remind her quite effortlessly. But what could she do about it? It sounded as though Miss Eliza Williams had nowhere else to go, and completely ignorant of the ill effect she had on Marianne.

As it happened, the tea worked wonders the likes of which Marianne had never seen. She sipped from her cup and watched Eliza painfully maintain her composure, even though it was obvious that the young woman wanted to wolf down every morsel on the tray. At least she had retained something of her education—whatever that might have been—instead of reverting to a complete savage during her pilgrimage. By the time the tea had been drunk and the last biscuit swallowed, Eliza's tears had dried. With nourishment, and safely under a roof, her bearing was a little finer. At last Marianne saw something of the lady that Brandon must have hoped she would grow up to be.

"You have been so kind to me, Mrs. Brandon," she said again. "I've traveled quite far to come here, but I really had not thought of what I would do once I arrived. I only knew that I could not bear to live with the Bramwells any longer."

Clearing her throat, Marianne finally brought herself to answer the question she had not been able to voice.

"I understand you had a child." The words nearly stuck in her throat. _Willoughby, why must you continue to haunt me?_ "Why have you not brought him with you?"

Eliza shook her head, reaching for the handkerchief again as her eyes welled up. "I left him with the Bramwells. It broke my heart, but I knew he'd be better off. They hated me for…for having him, but…once he was born, they fell in love with him. He's a beautiful child, and so good, it would be impossible not to love him. They said I was an unfit mother." She shrugged one shoulder, looking down. "I've been a foolish woman, I know, and selfish, forgetting about all the good things the dear Colonel has done for me. They didn't blame little Phillip, but they didn't think I was suitable. When I decided to leave, it…it nearly killed me, but I thought he should stay with them instead of my carrying him here, not even knowing what might happen along the way." She turned her sad eyes up to Marianne's. "Do you think me terribly wicked?"

Marianne signed. "Miss Williams, I confess I haven't the faintest idea what I might have done in your situation." _But for the grace of God, I might have been_…

Looking back down at the carpet, Eliza murmured, "Mrs. Bramwell told me countless times what _she _would have done."

There was a knock at the door, and the maid came in. Curtseying, she said, "Ma'am, I thought you might like to know that Colonel Brandon and Sir John Middleton are riding up to the house just now."

Both Marianne and Eliza sprang to their feet. Marianne looked at Eliza, whose face had lost all of its blood.

_Dear God, _she thought, _what happens now?_

* * *

**Additional A/N: Now, I realize that Jane Austen, the wonderful author she was, wrote her stories with a great amount of wit. While I **_**do**_** have a sense of humor, my writing tends to be more dramatic. Therefore, this story is definitely going to take on a darker, more tragic voice, though hopefully with some humor thrown in. But I shall try to be as faithful to the spirit of Jane Austen's novels as possible (taking my own liberties, of course). And yes, I do remember that Marianne and the Colonel have a happy ending!**

**Also: I'm trying to combine both the book and the movie, but I haven't read the book in quite a while, so if I get a detail wrong here and there, just, uh, assume that I'm taking fanfic liberties, all right? Hehe. And I've pretty much memorized the film, so a similar mistake _there _is not possible. Honestly, I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up. Hopefully it won't take years, but you never know...  
**


	4. Innocence and Experience

**A/N: Before we continue, I want to clarify a thing or two, just to make things easier (I hope—Sorry about the excessive A/Ns. I had thought to be done with them by now).**

**I did say that I'd try to mesh book **_**and **_**movie in this story, and I will. For simplicity's sake, however, I'm going to leave out the book's details about Brandon's brother and his relationship with the first Eliza, and just work from the information that Brandon and Mrs. Jennings supply in the movie.**

**I'm having ENTIRELY too much fun with this story, but as I don't consider it my **_**magnum opus**_**, I'm not concerned with being strict with the overall timeline. Therefore, any comments like "actually, according to the book, Eliza's baby would have been this old by now" and "they got married this time of year, so at this point it should be this season" will be lovingly and enthusiastically ignored. ;-) That said, any other reviews, including constructive criticism, remain welcome. Happy reading!**

**P.S. How twisted is it that I'm writing this as I watch the Tim Burton version of **_**Sweeney Todd**_**? Well, gives me something to do while I'm staying home sick from work, and I'm sure the Alan Rickman fans out there will appreciate the humor in it. (Oh, yes, I know you are out there…)**

* * *

Marianne held out one hand. "Wait here," she said to Eliza, "and I will speak to him first." Moving toward the parlor door, she paused to say, "Everything will be all right."

Relieved to see Eliza smile a little, Marianne continued to the foyer. She felt a sympathy for this young woman that she had never expected. Of course, she had never thought she would actually meetEliza in the first place, but Marianne's sprawling imagination had considered the possibility a time or two. Jealousy she _had_ expected, even though Willoughby met Eliza long before Marianne had come along. Anger was another emotion with which she was intimately familiar, but this had been, surprisingly, targeted more toward her husband than the unwelcome visitor. This compassion, almost a bond between them, was as unsettling as it was surprising.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," she said, closing the parlor door behind her. Brandon and Sir John smiled and greeted her, shaking their hats and cloaks. Those dark clouds had turned into rain before they reached the house, but they did not seem troubled by the weather's nasty turn.

"Mrs. Brandon, good afternoon!" Sir John said. "Your husband, you know, has all the luck of the devil. You should _see_ the gorgeous birds he shot today before that blasted rain started."

"Indeed," Marianne said. She looked at Brandon, whose little smile was obviously proud. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourselves."

"We were about to come up to the library in search of you," Brandon said. "I had expected you to be comfortably reading in weather like this."

"So had I," Marianne said, no longer able to maintain any kind of cheerful façade. "But I received a surprise visit instead."

Eyebrows raised, Brandon glanced at the parlor door, as though the person behind it would suddenly reveal herself. "From whom?"

Marianne hesitated. Her eyes darted to Sir John and back to her husband. All she knew was that she did not want to discuss this in front of Sir John. No matter how kindhearted and generous he was, he was not the sort of person in front of whom one would want to discuss an uncomfortable, confidential problem. Already he would have seen and heard enough to generate speculation, but Marianne wanted to make sure he gathered nothing more. If Mrs. Jennings, or Lady Middleton, or Elinor, or even her mother got wind of some gossip, Marianne wanted to make sure that anything passed on was formed wholly in Sir John's imagination.

As a more perceptive man than his companion, and more familiar with the workings of his wife's mind than she acknowledged, Brandon recognized Marianne's uncertainty to speak. He smiled at her, and suddenly she felt relieved. He turned to his friend.

"Sir John, I believe my wife has some household matter she wants to bring to my attention. If you would show yourself into the study, there should be a fire there and you can dry off and be comfortable. I'll join you in a few minutes."

"Of course, Brandon," the older gentleman said. "Don't let me interfere with anything here. Take as long as you like. Good afternoon, Marianne."

"Good afternoon, Sir John." She did not realize that she held her breath, but she did so until she was sure he was well out of earshot. Brandon watched her and waited. At last she said, "I suppose you would like to know who was in the parlor with me, Colonel."

"It has attracted my curiosity, certainly."

"You don't know, then."

"Of course not. My dear Marianne, whatever is the matter?"

Marianne had hoped to coax him into admitting that he had, indeed, expected a visitor in the form of Eliza Williams. It seemed rather obvious now that he had not intentionally invited her to Delaford. Perhaps he had, and forgot. It hardly mattered anymore, Marianne decided. She sighed.

"Miss Eliza Williams is here," she said, her voice a little harder than she had meant it to be. "She arrived only half an hour ago, and now I do not know what to do with her."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she watched his face carefully. She detected no hint of any attempt to conceal the confusion and exasperation that flashed across his features. Although she was relieved that he had not concealed anything from her, it did not make her feel any better about the presence of the young woman in the parlor. Sympathy or not, Marianne did not want her there. It was already awkward enough to play the role of Delaford's mistress and Colonel Brandon's wife. To have, under their roof, a living, breathing reminder of the tragedies both she and her husband had experienced and wanted to forget was almost too much. Marianne was constantly praised for her wit and spirit and generous heart, but at the moment she possessed none of those things; she wanted to run to the library and hide behind a book. Even more so, she wished she could leave the house entirely and fly down the hill to her sister's home, and sit before the fire with Elinor and Edward and talk about anything and nothing.

"Marianne, I confess I do not know what to say to you," Brandon murmured. "I did not invite her, and I had no warning that she was coming. Forgive me for not being here when she arrived."

Marianne made a gesture with one hand, dismissing his apology. "If you did not know, then you cannot blame yourself for going out. I just…It was so unexpected."

"Of course." He paused to clear his throat. "Well, I ought to speak to her, then."

"Please do," Marianne said, stepping aside from the door. She followed him inside, watching Eliza's reaction. The poor girl looked like a dog about to be punished, or a child who had been caught stealing from the larder. She looked even paler, sicker, and her eyes more shadowed than when she had first walked into the house; for the first time Marianne noticed how tiny she was.

"Oh, Colonel!" Eliza gasped, wringing her hands. "Please don't be angry that I came. I'm sorry I didn't write—I just couldn't. Please understand, I had nowhere else to go, and I had to leave the Bramwells' house."

He held up one hand. "Time enough for apologies later, I think. I need to know how you got here and why you came in the first place. Do Mr. and Mrs. Bramwell know you're here?"

Marianne could not see his face, but his tone was firm and restrained, no doubt one that Eliza had heard from him before. The younger woman lowered her eyes and shook her head.

"I didn't tell them where I'd gone, but they probably guessed. Or they might have thought I went to Louisa's house and decided to look there first." She added in a grumble, "If they bothered looking, which I doubt."

"You know that seeing Miss Strickland was absolutely out of the question. You were never to associate with her again after that incident in Bath."

His words stung Marianne with memories just as they must have stung Eliza. It was so strange for her to hear him speak to Eliza as though she were a child, even if she was only a few years younger than his wife. Eliza pouted in response, looking even more childish.

"I didn't," she said. "And anyway, 'tisn't fair. _She_ had nothing to do with it."

"Perhaps not," Brandon said, "but her company did you no favors."

A chill went through Marianne when he said that. To see Christopher Brandon caught unawares, to witness this man—usually so patient, gentle, and steady—speaking tensely and using scolding words was unlike anything she had experienced. She felt as though her world had tipped sideways, and even when it righted itself again, all the contents would remain scattered and in disarray. She wanted to beg Eliza to say nothing more to provoke him. There was something—_intriguing_—about hearing him speak so, but it was far too unsettling.

Another few moments of silence, and Marianne could bear it no more. She moved around Brandon and approached the young woman. Laying a hand on her shoulder, Marianne said, "Now that you're here, Miss Williams, we certainly cannot turn you out. I can show you the room you will stay in, and later you and the Colonel can discuss what's to be done. You must be exhausted from your journey." She glanced at her husband, silently entreating him to confirm what she said.

Instead of the hardness and anger she expected to see in his face, his expression was all grief and defeat, though she could not understand why that would be.

"By all means," he said softly.

* * *

The rain cleared, Sir John had gone, and supper was finished long before Brandon left Eliza's room and joined Marianne in the library. He settled into a chair and rubbed his face as though exhausted.

"Marianne," he groaned, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am. This should not have happened—she was never meant to come here. I had planned to visit her soon, but I did not intend for you to have to see her, as well."

"She told me she ran away," Marianne said after a pause.

"Yes." He sighed. "What utter folly! I shall have to write the Bramwells and inform them of her whereabouts. I've never seen evidence of any cruelty, and yet she insists her escape was justified. I don't know what drove her to something so drastic."

"Perhaps it was something that came over her in childbirth. I've heard of such things happening…I think."

"Her child is far too old—" Brandon stopped himself and looked at his wife. Marianne was holding a book, but her eyes were not moving, and a new flush spread across her cheeks. Whatever tome she held, she was not really reading it. Only guessing the thoughts that passed through her mind, Brandon stood and approached her chair. "Marianne."

He crouched beside her. Her eyes darted toward him but a moment before she shuddered and focused again on a single letter on the page.

"All will be well, my dear, I promise," he said. "Had I known how to prevent then, I certainly would have. It must have been a dreadful shock for you to see her there, and learn who she was, after all that has happened."

"What's done is done," Marianne said. "I've long ago reconciled with the past."

"Have you?" When she said nothing, he stood up straight. "She will not stay long. When I hear back from the Bramwells, I'll see that she is sent back."

"There is no hurry. She is your ward, after all. She's your responsibility, is she not? Goodness, what is it to me if she stays here forever? By all means, have her send for her child, as well. She was certainly your responsibility even before you met me, and before…everything…"

The rest of her words hung in the air, unspoken, though just as clearly understood as if she had shouted them.

Brandon closed his eyes, pained by her sorrow. This happened too soon. They had not been prepared to face such a thing together, and now they were forced to carry on as two broken individuals, not united as he would have wished. Were the bonds of holy matrimony strong enough to endure every blow from the past? If he had not promised Eliza…If he had been less indulgent of her daughter…Perhaps then, they might have had a better chance at happiness.

No, neither of those things were so terrible. But had it not been for Willoughby, it might have been better for them. Brandon silently cursed the young rake, seeing his damage even now taking effect in Marianne. She could not have reconciled with the past. Every moment since their wedding day had told him quite clearly the opposite. She could _never _hide her emotions, even when she tried. Did she mean to make a fool of him? Or was she only trying to hide her pain to spare him? He desperately hoped the latter was true. Perhaps then there was a chance for him.

"Marianne, there is no need for that," he said. "You are my wife now, and of course you must take precedence in all things. I will not forsake you on behalf of a foolish young girl who should have known better."

She looked up, wide-eyed, at his remark. "Sir, you shouldn't speak so harshly. If you were not there, you cannot judge her. You must have forgotten how easily a young girl can is beguiled by handsome young men and empty promises." Looking down at her book again, she added, in a quieter voice, "I do pity her, Colonel. Do not trouble yourself over her return—she may stay as long as necessary."

Brandon heaved a tiny sigh of relief. As frustrating as this must be for Marianne, of _course _she would see some similarity—only slight, thank God!—between herself and the unfortunate Eliza. Even in such times, he should have known he could count on her compassion. Perhaps it would not make their environment any more comfortable, but it could make their plight a bit easier overall.

"I appreciate your consideration, Marianne, and I apologize for my 'harshness' as you called it,. Eliza told me that she has received nothing but kindness since she arrived. She thinks very highly of you, and wished for me to convey her gratitude for your hospitality."

"It was nothing," she said absently.

Brandon bowed his head slightly. "Well, then, my dear, hospitality or not, I must go and write that letter."

As he left the room, he knew that his wife's benevolence would last as long as Eliza needed it. Her patience, however, he was not sure would hold out. He was sure that his own, in fact, would be thoroughly tested.

* * *


End file.
